


Hunted

by 3rdstarksistr



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dark Sansan, F/M, Flogging, Hunt, Pre-Battle of the Blackwater, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 10:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9176998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3rdstarksistr/pseuds/3rdstarksistr
Summary: With Robb's continued success, Sansa pays dearly with Joffrey's latest sadistic game to have her hunted by the kingsguard and punished by its victor. How will Sandor help his little bird?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Aging Sansa up to 18 for this story.

**_Sansa_ **

Sansa kneeled before the king, the gleam in Joffrey’s eye already awakening the fear in her gut. Would he have Ser Meryn strip her again? Beat her?

“Your brother clearly did not learn his lesson, Lady Sansa.”

She gulps, watching him.

“What do you say to that?”

“Please, your grace, I will write again to my traitor brother to bend the knee to you, the true king.”

“I think you’ll have to do better than that,” he pauses, a sardonic smile on his face. “Ser Meryn, will you please escort my lady to the kingswood. Hound, make sure all members of the kingsguard are in attendance.” With that, Joffrey walked right past her. Looking at him, she doesn’t anticipate Ser Meryn roughly pulling her up and start practically dragging her out the Great Hall.

She’s taken on horseback out across Blackwater Rush to the edge of the kingswood. There, Ser Meryn pulls her off the horse and drags her to stand before Joffrey. She’s confused to see a wooden post there. A chair is brought for Joffrey, and many members of the court that followed gather. She sees the Hound arrive, dismounting, the other members of the kingsguard with him. They all assemble before their king.

Satisfied that he has everyone’s attention, Joffrey says, “Ser Meryn, bring Lady Sansa forward.” He presses her ahead, almost making her stumble. “I’m afraid you’re overdressed for this occasion, Lady Sansa. Ser Meryn?” Sansa feels the cold blade of Ser Meryn’s dagger go down inside her dress. Not again. He rips it, tearing the silk apart. He pulls it down, exposing her undergarments. The crispness of the air hits her with a slight shiver. Her arms hug her as she tries to maintain some dignity.

“All of it,” Joffrey says, causing a murmur among those gathered, but no one dares question the king in such a direct command.

“Please, your grace,” she mumbles, falling to her knees.

“Lady Sansa, would you defy your king?”

“No, your grace,” she says, tears threatening. Don’t take this from her.

“Then stand.” She does as she says. Joffrey then motions to the knight, “Ser Meryn.” His sharp blade is then yanking and cutting through her corset laces. She closes her eyes and imagines her family, snow at Winterfell, lemoncakes, anything but where she stands right now. Anything else but having her corset yanked from around her waist and her shift torn off. Before he can, she herself pulls off her smallclothes and down her stockings, removing her slippers till she stands naked before Joffrey and the court.

“Can you not look at me, Lady Sansa? I can see you,” Joffrey says.

She forces her lids open, “Yes, your grace,” she says, her voice distant to her own ears.

“See the kingswood there. I’m giving you a chance to escape and warn your brother that he will lose.” She looks behind her, stopping on the Hound’s face, his eyes catch on hers, and she can feel the fury in them. _Help_ , she wants to say, remembering his cloak around her that day. She knows he can do nothing without risking everything and for what? Joffrey will do what he wants with her one way or other.

“Lady Sansa?”

“Yes, your grace,” she says, turning around.

“Aren’t you going to thank your king?”

“Thank you, your grace.” The way Joffrey smiles at this could only bode worse. What else is there that he is anticipating? How much worse can this get? Does he intend to truly leave her in the woods?

“I’ll let you go ahead but know I will have to soon send my kingsguard after you. You are my betrothed after all.” This is his game, Sansa’s heart starts hammering harder.

With an almost impatient look, he says next, “What are you waiting for?” Oh, the gods, new and old, save me, Sansa thinks, before turning and heading for the forest.

“Run,” Joffrey calls after her with a laugh, and she picks up the pace. Entering the wood, her feet fall prey to twigs and hard roots as she tries to hurry her way through, looking for the best path. She moves between the tree trunks, looking up at the sky for a moment to see a patch of blue through the canopy. Her chest is soon on fire, and her mind is racing. She can barely see or focus with the heightened fear driving her. Her arm scrapes against some bark, and she stubs her toes on a tree’s root right after. She’s stumbling then, her knee scraped. She gets back up, but everything is a blur of light and dark. Disoriented, she’s slowed as she moves further into the forest.

“Lady Sansa,” she hears called behind her, piquing her already unstable fear. Run, run, get away, run, goes through her mind in a frenzy. She looks around not knowing which way she came. She steps forward, her hair holding her back stuck in a branch. She struggles with it, and when she frees it, she sees the hollowed out tree. What if she could hide? They might go by and never see her. Nestling herself into the tight, dark space, she tries to calm her labored breathing with difficulty. It’s almost painful. The crisp air against her skin in the shaded forest has her shivering, she will die out here, she realizes. She might die if they find her, too.

She hears a sound, wondering, and then there it is, the clink of metal. Which knight could it be? She should’ve hidden better. She can’t tell if he’s approaching or not but then the clanging of the armor is clear, and she hears him come near her. Please let him go by, please, she prays.

He stops right at the front of the tree, and tears start again. She feels so helpless here. What can she do?

“Little bird?” She hears the Hound rasp. “Come out.”

She hesitates but knows how lucky she is that it is him. That he would be the one to find her. He always finds her. She steps out, looking up at him. She’s never seen his eyes quite like this, the overwhelming melancholy in them, shame even, as he looks at her.

“You’re shaking,” he says, pulling off his cloak and wrapping it around her.

Her heart is still racing, her body frozen, she looks down and everything seems to spin. His warms hands are then on either side of her face, “Stay with me, little bird. I’ll get you through this.” He’s then taking hold of her, and next thing she knows, she’s being hoisted over his shoulder. Everything is going to be fine now, she thinks, letting her eyes close and be soothed by the gentle sway of his gait as he takes her back through the woods.

Not too long, she feels the sun on her, they must be back where they started. She can’t hear anything yet, but after several more paces, she hears Joffrey, “Dog, I knew you would find her first. Like a true hound,” he laughs. “I’m afraid Lord Baelish, you were wrong in putting your wager on Ser Meryn.” Sandor is putting her down, and she holds his cloak tight around her. She keeps her eyes held tight against the sunlight, as though some small protection.

“I am a fool today to think differently of your grace,” Lord Baelish says.

“Let’s hope you do not make the same mistake again,” Joffrey says. “Now, dog, having caught her, you have the next honor.” It’s not over, Sansa’s mind reels. She’s drained of fear, her heart is weak, all she can do is shake. “Flog her.”

**_Sandor_ **

Only if he could drag Joffrey to the whipping post would there be any joy in this day. He knew the boy had been planning something with Meryn, but this he was not prepared for. He had made a point to get to her first – the rest of the kingsguard mostly useless as it is. He could see the fear and panic had already taken their toll on the little bird. Watching her stripped had nearly sent him over the edge to slaughter every last one of them.

Now he must be the one to hurt her. He’d promised himself never to, but this day, he would not give her to Meryn. He knows what he must do. He takes the little bird by the arm and leads her to the post, helping her up onto the platform. He takes the cloak from her reluctantly and raises her arms. He puts her wrists in the shackles overhead.

“Stay with me,” he tells her in a whisper and backs away.

He takes the flogger and tests the weight of it, the leather strips fluid in their movement. He swallows and positions himself before the little bird. He knows he can’t start lightly, but she’ll adapt. Pain like this has a way of easing itself – still, he can’t make it easy on her. He looks at her perfect pale back, can see her trembling slightly. Taking a deep breath, he pulls back and brings the flogger up, his wrist turning as the leather collides with her skin, the many strands spread out over her back. Sansa screams out like he needed her to, the shackles clanking as she falls toward the post.

“Well struck, dog,” Joffrey says from his place. It makes Sandor clench his teeth. As much as he wants to lash out, he won’t forget whom he’s hitting. He pulls back and flogs her again, stretching down from her right shoulder. She barely has time to scream before he’s coming at her from the left, then her voice cracks as she cries out, a pitiful sound.

He takes the flogger and strikes her again down her back before stepping to the side and breaking it across her ass. He can hear her sharp intake of breath before the shrieking as he hits her there over and over again. He focuses attention on hitting the back of her legs, making her stumble, the metal of the shackles clanking again. Her cries are heightened as he takes on her legs, leaving red stripes across her pale skin.

He steps back then, Sansa regaining her feet and a sheen of sweat over her skin. He hits either side of her back over and over again, as Sansa yelps and whimper through it. He pauses, gripping the handle and closing his eyes. Then, he takes a deep breath, looking at her back now, and he puts more into a hit further down, the strips wrapping up along her ribcage. She cries out, a throaty, desperate sound. She’s whimpering again, and he can almost swear she’s whispering his name. He then directs the leather straps on her other side, harder. Her wail is high and piercing, cut short only by another harsh blow high on her back. There’ s a desperate whine now to her, and he can see her sag against her restraints slightly.

“Hound,” Sandor hears Joffrey say, getting his attention. Meryn then approaches, making Sandor’s hair stand up in alarm.

“Yes, your grace?” He asks.

“Whip her.”

The heat burning him up, the sweat covering him, is nothing to the cold that runs through him at those words. Sandor takes the whip from Meryn before the bloody knight can ask Joffrey for the pleasure. How can he take a whip meant for the thick hide of an animal and strike her soft flesh with it? It’ll break.

He takes the whip in hand, testing the weight, and then he tries the whip, snapping it up and back down for a crack that should satisfy Joffrey. He looks to Sansa, her perfect back, despite being reddened with his assault, and now he has to crack this whip on.

Taking a deep breath, wishing he could take her place, he stands back and starts with some overhand flicks, the end of the whip popping on her back. Her whole body flinches forward at each hit, and gods, her screams. It’s as though her skin is being flayed off each time. Joffrey truly wants blood though. Sandor knows.

He steps closer, drawing the whip up and with a snap of his wrist, he brings the whip down her back, cracking it on her. She screams harder somehow, hoarse but with every inch of her being, he can feel it. A cold tremor runs through him, especially to see her shaking with sobs. The whip clear, he can see the stripe he’s laid on her. He takes a step closer, feigning drawing a finger over the mark but really to say to her, “Stop moving. Two more, and I need you to go limp and quiet.” Her shaking like she is, he’s afraid he’ll miss. He hopes she’s not too far gone to even know what he’s saying.

Every part of him says to stop, but if he does now, Meryn will see every inch of her cut open. He draws the whip up again and lashes her with it. Her hoarse, desperate scream making him war against every instinct to not draw back the whip again. He casts it, the leather striking her down her back. She cries out, her throat sounding as raw as her back, the thin lines of open skin bright red with rivulets of the dark blood already making their way from each down her back. She collapses against the pole, her knees buckled as she hangs from her wrists.

“Your grace,” he says. “The lady has passed out.”

“See if you can wake her with another.”

The Stranger take him, Sandor thinks, and he readies the whip for another blow. He strikes her, cracking the whip down her back. She hangs there limp, somehow not making a sound.

“Again,” Joffrey says.

Damn him to all seven hells, Sandor thinks this time. He takes the whip and brings it down on her back again, cracking it. He sees the newest break in her skin. Maybe she really did pass out, he thinks, as she continues to make no sound, only hang there.

Joffrey approaches then, looking at her back, the five long lashes she took amidst the bright dots from the whip’s end and her flogged red skin. She looks a ruin, he admits, though it could be far worse. Meryn would have a puddle of blood at her feet, her flesh butchered.

“See that the pretender, Robb Stark, hears of his sister’s attempt to warn him,” Joffrey says to those gathered and then walks off to his horse.

“I’ll take the girl,” Meryn says to him.

“I’ll see to her. You see to the king,” he says, harshly.

Taking his cloak, he covers her, whispering, “Don’t move.” Looking at her face, her eyes open, glazed over. She moves to speak, and then he sees the blood in her mouth, she must have bit into her lip. “Shhh,” he tells her, “Close your eyes now.” He wraps an arm around her torso and then struggles to loose the shackles. Getting her wrists out, she slumps against him, but he holds her up. With his other arm he swings her legs up over them and carries her to his horse.

Riding back with her, he keeps telling her, “Stay with me, little bird.” She doesn’t make a sound, worrying him. Back at the Red Keep, he carries her to her room, setting her down on her side in the bed. He tells her handmaiden to fetch a maester. Pulling away from her, he’s surprised when her little hand grips onto him, he takes it and watches her little eyes open. “Don’t leave me,” he barely makes out her whisper.

He gets down on a knee, taking her hand in both of his. Each breath he takes is painful, looking into her tired eyes. “I…” he starts trying to say something. He never wanted to hurt her, how is he going to live with it? He’ll kill every last one of them, and then he’ll have to kill himself.

“I know,” she says softly. Her blue eyes stay on him, tears streaming out of them. He’ll get her out of her, should have already, he realizes. That’s the only way.

 

**Author's Note:**

> All characters belong to George R. R. Martin.


End file.
